


Metamorphoses

by augen_auf



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Mentions of non-con, Sibling Incest, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augen_auf/pseuds/augen_auf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kmeme prompt requesting Varania/Fenris. Contains angst and mythological references (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leto), and some smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphoses

**Author's Note:**

> Italics are memories/thoughts of Leto and Varania, bold font is erm.. a story of Leto :)

“It really is you”.

 **Leto, heavy with burden gifted by Gods, was shunned by all lands; and no place would offer her relief but a floating island, carried by the wild waters, never to stay long enough to cling to the land that once bore it.**

  
 _"Why do you have magic and I don’t?"  
"Brothers and sisters don’t always share the gift, Leto."  
"Our father had magic, then?"  
"No, sweetie, our father was a slave, like us."  
"But you have magic, and you are a slave. Will you become a Magister when you grow up? You could buy me and Mother, and we’d be your slaves then."  
"Hush, little brother. I will not become a Magister, because I will never be free."  
"I would do anything in the world for you to be free, Varania. I love you."  
"I love you, too, my sweet Leto. Sleep now."_

 **For Gods are jealous creatures, and their gifts are a burden more than a blessing, for mortals and divines alike to reveal their contempt and desire –**

They have never known their father; they’ve only heard that he was very pretty and his Master often used him for breeding: he produced pretty children, the ones that fetched high price. Varania was growing up to the satisfaction of Master Danarius, and his guests were casting appreciative glances over her as she stood there during the feasts, small lights in her palms adding to the bloody farewell of sunset and the flickering fire of the torches, - a decoration, a mage slave, honing her talents to fulfil the role of a living lantern. Leto looks like a child next to her, gangly limbs and messy dark hair, and calloused palms from sword training; what he didn’t have in magic, he seemed to be compensating in strength. After a few bloodied noses and a broken arm (and many punishments from Master for damaging his property), other slaves didn’t dare to approach Varania or give her lewd looks anymore.

His beautiful sister, her copper hair and thoughtful green eyes, tight wrinkles around her mouth as if she was constantly struggling to keep silent, her strange power just out of his reach, - it is all his and his alone. His beloved sister, whom he would protect with his life, worthless as it is, for as long as he could.

"I’ll give you fifty sovereigns for the pair of them, Danarius."

Laughter, greasy and sticky like the oil he had used for his sword today, is wrapping around him and Varania, but it doesn’t matter as long as they stay together…

  
"Aye, you could fuck them together! I bet he’ll be wailing more than she will…"  
"Patience, my friends. In a few years they will be worth much more, and I have plans for this pair."

 _ **_

Slave children didn’t remain unaware of the prose of life longer than their toddler year _s_ : bloody deaths and punishments, undisputed structure of the world where they’d been born as property, few satisfactions at the mercy of their Master, and small pleasures that could be found on their own.

His muscles ache after a day of training, and Varania soothes the pain with the little of her magic that she had learned at the mercy of Master Danarius, so that she could take care of his other property. She is beautiful and confident, his sister, and she is his to protect and cherish; so he covers her lips with his own that are fuller and rougher, tastes her and her magic, learns her, draws her closer, so that she won’t slip away with that ethereal and incomprehensible force that she carries inside. His awe and fear is mirrored in his own eyes behind the copper hair, he doesn’t know anymore whether he will survive if he fails to protect her, whether his own existence is real enough without the other pair of green eyes, without the pale skin against his darker and suntanned, without her fragile, trembling form in his arms, slowly becoming one with his own body, merging and singing with magic. Her body is so familiar and so new, his sister and his woman, only his to learn and to protect, to become one; he claims her with his essence, and, like his seed doesn’t linger inside her, his claim is slipping away and surrendering to the one and only powerful claim of their enslavement – 

and it brings more pain than the beatings from Master Danarius, who is not at all pleased to discover his sibling slaves copulating. Master forces Varania to drink some vile potion to avoid the conception of an inbred child, and Leto doesn’t see her until the next morning, her thin lips swollen in a revolting parody of his full ones, more strange magic and unfamiliar smells between them as she refuses to heal his wounds.

She spends more time with Master now, and her eyes are growing too old, too knowledgeable for her young face and body, and so do his, because they are one and the same. She calls him her sweet Leto, but keeps her eyes shut when they are making love, and she is brewing the vile potion for herself now. He can hold two of her hands with one of his own; he is growing stronger and better with his sword every day, so Master is pleased with him, too. His lifemight be still worthless, but his sister says that those with strength deserve to bend their fates, and he feels that he’s a bit closer to his childhood dream of being a slave to Varania, of using his strength to give her freedom she desires. So when the smell from a crate of lyrium worth a fortune is overpowering his senses, as Master recites the terms of challenge, he almost smiles and thanks whatever gods have been listening all this time.

When he awakes, the only memory is pain, and his senses are assaulted again by lyrium and blood. There is something waiting for him here, but the claim of his Master crushes those subtle cravings with cruelty that is agonizing in its novelty; his name is Fenris, he learns, and his sole purpose of life is obedience. Other slaves are quiet around him, and two beds were removed from his room, while the smells of elven beings linger that he can’t quite place. He is sometimes haunted by strange dreams of his own eyes behind copper hair, pale skin changing to dark brown with white markings, and he is awake from the light emanating from his own body, panting and c _o_ nfused and aroused but never able to reach satisfaction. He still knows something is waiting for him, but this knowledge is even more evasive than his dreams, which are rare because his days are full and tiresome. It is not until he is abandoned by his Master and joins Fog Warriors that he’s got enough time to think, and while he still can’t remember, his cravings are now shaped like the word “freedom”, the first one he learned to write in their camp. “Freedom” is green and copper, and soon it is overflowing with blood of those who gave him a taste of it. Then he runs.

 

“I am sorry it came to this, Leto”.

His Master approaches him, winning stride and familiar unfamiliar smells and greasy smile, all clinging to him like dry leaves to sweaty skin, memories resurfacing again like that only night of passion he can remember.  
 _She led him here_

 __and his green and copper freedom burnt to ashes again.

 _  
_Varania._  
_

  
She is his and his alone, and he hasn’t laid his claim on her for years.  
The battle is short, and the blood of Danarius will fuel his own copper-blood magic.  
Leto claims his life and his memories, and he claims his sister, too.

“I had no choice, Leto”.   
“He was going to make me his apprentice. I would have been a Magister”.   
“You have no idea what we went through. What I had to do since Mother died. This was my only chance”.   
And now you have no chance at all.   
“Please, don’t do this”.

  
  
_I would have given you everything…_   
_I had given you everything._   


“Hawke, I.. need to talk to my sister. I will be in my mansion if you need me”.   
Their walk is short, and neither says a word. 

  


She falls to her knees, blood on her cheek mixing with the copper of hair let loose. He takes off his gauntlets, but keeps the armor, out of fear to crumble to the floor next to her without its support.    
_Sister, his beautiful sister, he has lived without her for so long, and his freedom tastes like ashes without her, copper and green burnt down to ashes..._

He unties his breeches and forces himself between her lips that quickly become swollen and full like his own, and now he can breathe a bit while she chokes and makes no move to stop him. He pushes faster and deeper, down her throat, yet not deep enough to reach her magic, to share her taint, for magic spoils everything it has touched, and his taint is there, burnt away by lyrium from his mind, but not from his flesh…

He pulls out and yanks her up by her hair, green eyes looking back on him, pleading and guilty –   
She lets her dress fall down and once more, he slaps her hard on the face, feeling the sting in his palm and on his own cheek. There is urgency as his memories keep coming back, and no time left at all, so he uses Hawke’s scarf to tie his sister’s hands to the bedpost, and lets his own ones travel over her smooth back, pale and perfect, which couldn’t be more different from his lyrium-marked skin – 

which responds to his sister’s magic that he had been trying to hold and overpower for all those years, and now it’s all there on the surface, drawn to his markings, the essence of her etched into his skin when he bites her shoulder deep enough to draw blood and see it stain the white perfection of the lines on his hand. He draws lines on her back, too, but blood dries quickly and soon it’s nothing but his gentle touch   
that brings invisible markings to life. Once again, they are alike, brother and sister, and maybe they can become whole again.

  
He turns her to her back and uses her tears to create more markings on her chin.  
Her breasts are too small for his hands and too gentle for his rough tongue, and she whimpers, straining against the worn red scarf, and it is   
Leto, my sweet Leto…  
She chants and he pushes inside, his copper blood magic blooming, her hair all over the pillow and his green eyes twice lightened with desperation. Her magic wraps them and warps them into a single being which can only exist in motion and pain, and so they move against each other, and  
 _she is his and his alone_  
his seed is lyrium-scented and a perfect mixture of the two of them, a puddle in her belly, he uses it to finish her markings, and now she is complete, and he is empty and has nothing more to give her.

 

He frees her hands and ties the red scarf over her eyes after bidding her goodbye.  
Her heart is beating in his hand, her life is his and his alone, and she smiles at him.

 _**For Leto descended from Light and gave birth to Death and Cure; and since that time Death comes unexpected and brings peace, while Cure is welcome, for it prolongs the sufferings of the living.**_

 __

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End file.
